


In the Crooks of Your Body (I Find My Religion)

by poppywine



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Awkward Crush, Denial of Feelings, Developing Relationship, Eventual Fluff, Forced Relationship, Gen, Secret Crush, Vignette, You Repeatedly Encounter Helen & Catch Feelings Oops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:55:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25198858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poppywine/pseuds/poppywine
Summary: Neither of you move. Instead you simply freeze there, losing yourself to the swirling color in the marbles of her eyes. The both of you so close you can almost make out your own dreamy expression in the reflection, tiny and wavering. It’s she who breaks the moment, impossibly angled curls coiling and rearranging themselves into broken fractals you already know feel impossibly satin between your fingers. As the moment falls further and further away, you become aware of the warmth radiating from your face in waves, so intense you nearly want to reject the reality of the nervous heat humming under your skin.
Relationships: Helen Richardson (The Magnus Archives)/Reader
Comments: 12
Kudos: 56





	1. Prologue

**Y** ou’re nearly home when you see the door. 

The shape of it is almost comically out of place, a bright yellow shape standing unsupported at the mouth of the nearby alleyway like an abandoned prop from a giants’ dollhouse. Still, it’s fairly late and right now the only thing you really want to do is go home and  _ sleep,  _ shake off the brutality of your last shift. Trying to ignore the looming rectangle squatting in the dark proves difficult, especially with the way the glow of its color refuses to wane even in the dark of night. You’re halfway down the street when you hear it, the noise made all the more evident by the lack of traffic. The door swings open, just a little, and a pencil-thin stripe of light spills onto the sidewalk; the illumination glows so brightly you can almost convince yourself it's a strand of pure gold pulled straight from a fairytale. Even when a rat scurries across the line and breaks the stream of light with its small furry shadow, you still find yourself enthralled by the impossibility of the sight before you. 

Perhaps it’s the exhaustion frying your mind or the bizarreness of the situation nullifying your common sense, but you only hesitate for a few moments before drawing closer, rapid footsteps deafening in the nighttime silence. Later on the moment you open the door will be the easiest to recall, crystallized with fearful hindsight- with an aborted swing you reached for the knob, then froze. Fleeting worry came over you, idiotic in its misdirected priority:  _ I hope this thing isn’t dirty _ , you find yourself thinking before taking a shaky breath and grabbing the brass handle. 

There are a few blissfully numb seconds of emotional freefall before comprehension slaps you  _ hard _ . What you initially had expected to see was missing- instead of the grimy corridor you had predicted an honest-to-god hallway stretches out before you, both walls lined with closed doors. The hall itself is devoid of any deviation, alien in its uniformity; the watery-yellow of the place is unbroken save for picture frames on the walls and the occasional unwatered, stunted-looking houseplant. If your nails were any longer they’d be embedded into the surface of the doorframe, biting into the wood in a ferocious attempt to ground yourself. Trying to unstick them is near impossible so you leave your clenched hand to its own devices. Without tearing your eyes away from the beige nightmare before you thrust out one hand and swing blindly at the space behind the door, which should be no less then a perfect twelve inches from your face. The air rushes through your fingers, shaking the loose hair tie around your wrist but you see nothing of the motion, instead there is only an endless horizon of potted plants and identical sealed doors.

The stretch of the hallway seems to be a black hole on your focus; the corridor seems to be drawing your attention deeper and deeper until you lean too far in and nearly slip, saved only by your hand on the frame. You overcorrect and swerve to steady yourself, hovering on the threshold. After looking down and carefully checking that your feet are firmly outside the threshold, you decide to play it safe and brace your shoulder against the doorway, anchoring yourself firmly in place. 

That’s when you see it. Her?

A shape stands far down the hallway just through the entrance, unmoving and hazy at the edge of visibility just before the 

vanishing point of the horizon. Though your vision fuzzes with the distance, you can vaguely make out the scene taking place. At the foot of the silhouette is something unidentifiable in its shapelessness, heaped limply on the seamless wood of the hall. It looks almost like a duffel bag, bloated and warped with stuffing, and it isn’t until the thing shifts and you can make out a pair of feet do you realize that it’s not a bag at all. Sound threatens to spill from you, be it hysterical laughter or screams but you close your eyes and swallow, gulping down the noise and the genuine fear it carries. You must slip up somehow, make some semblance of a cry because the thing in the hall _twists_ toward you in a single terrible, sinuous motion. The entire corridor swings into a vicious clarity as it moves, and almost unwillingly you can finally see what stands before you.

It looks  _ almost _ like a woman, long and angular like you’re viewing her through a funhouse mirror. You’ve almost convinced yourself that what you’re seeing is just that, a strange woman in stranger situation, when she stands up the corpse slides off her finger like an oversized ring before hitting the floor with a sickeningly wet  _ plop _ . In a comical moment you watch as the thing delicately wipes the blood from its hands onto the clothes of the body before straightening up and beginning to walk, perfectly composed, to the open door where you stand. The shape is so far off that you can barely make out any details until the gap has closed enough and you understand. It’s not walking towards you.

It’s running. The horizon behind it seems to be closing in as well, pulling shut like a throat and the entire hallway  _ laughs _ , high and feminine yet coming from nowhere and everywhere.

There’s a scream, the slam of a door and the sound of feet pounding wildly over concrete: It feels like ages before you come back to your senses but once you do, you realize you’re in front of your building shaking, doubled over out of breath as your trembling fingers fist at the fabric of your pants. It’s only then that you recognize both noises as your own, the memory already blurring with terror. The burning sting of exertion is still wreaking havoc on your lungs when the fear rises in your again, settling over you as insidiously gentle as a warm breeze. When you chance a look around, straightening upright to slouch against the reddish brick. The street seems empty enough upon first glance, but then your eyes touch upon that dark alleyway once more. Even in the comforting late-afternoon light the corridor seems to actively repel any illumination, looking like nothing more than a giant throat. The darkness there is so penetrating you can barely make out what’s just beyond the boundary, but something about the sight makes your throat go tight with a kind of animal dread. Your muscles let out little twinges of protest at the motions but you fumble with your keys and dart through the door, hobbling as quickly as you can up the stairs before throwing your door open and slamming it behind you. 

The strength leaves your legs just over the threshold, the muscles going dead and numb. you let their weight pull you to earth, feeling yourself slide down still pressed against the door. Adrenaline is still rampaging through your system, lighting you up with painful flashes of hyper awareness but they’re gradually fading, the gaps between each wave filling with the typical deep set exhaustion you get after a long day of work. The switch controlling the lights seems too far away to even consider and as you look at it the wall seems to pull away all at once, a dolly zoom in slow motion. Fully enveloped in the darkness of your flat you sit there listening to the gradually steadying race of your heart. 

It isn’t until you can stand up and walk without stumbling that you realize you can’t pretend nothing happened as much as your burnt-out body cries out for sleep. Unlocking your phone brings a flood of light and you squint in the sudden brightness, steeling your nerves as your fingers tap out the emergency number. Before you can doubt yourself the phone starts ringing, and the shock of the voice at the other end drives you to press the cell against your ear, raptly listening to the voice on the other end. 

“I, uh,” your voice falters and you bite the inside of your cheek, trying to corral your manner any way, thoughts into something comprehensible. “I’d like to call in an anonymous tip.” It takes a few times for you to explain what you’ve seen without sounding completely insane, but once you’re satisfied and the operator has exhausted her list of questions you hang up with something like lukewarm pride in your actions. From your position by the window, you cast another wary glance at the darkened alleyway, almost wandering away from the window before something organic and wild-looking appears on the wall for a fraction of a second, snapping in the wind before vanishing completely. You think very briefly that it looks like hair, but shake the thought off. Anxiety has a tendency to mess with your eyes, as you’ve come to understand- though usually sleep helps reset your mind.

Without bothering to change out of your work uniform you crawl into bed and slip into a dreamless sleep, so deep it feels like you’re drowning. 

You don’t wake up until hours later, eyes snapping open just in time to catch sight of a dark shape at the foot of your bed, entirely swathed in shadow save for the glistening crescent of a wide smile.

“Hullo!” says the shape. 

_Unnatural_ , your mind whispers. _An_ _abomination_. The repulsiveness of the creature before you is borderline biblical, too devastating for your frightened mind to totally comprehend. It follows your backwards scramble over the mattress with a predatory grace, radiating an absence of heat that only speaks to the fact of this thing’s inhumanness. When you finally untangle yourself from the sheets and dart for the door on your hands and knees, it makes no move to stop you, and that somehow scares you more than its appearance alone. The sleep and adrenaline warring in your system make the world around you both too fast and too slow, and you pinball down your flat to the front door blindly, scuffing your palms as you bounce off the walls. You’re just rounding the last corner when you see it, almost smug in its presence.

It’s the door. 

It’s slotted itself between your bathroom and kitchen, bright yellow paint almost wet-looking in the neon light from outside. The sight of it rattles your equilibrium and you stagger to a halt, muscles singing with tension, before opportunity presents itself and you lunge for the fire escape, totally blind to the obstacles in your path. You’re so desperate you miss the basket of laundry kicked to the side as always and it isn’t until you knee explodes in pain do you remember. You throw out both arms to catch yourself, but your movements are sloppy and the last sound you hear is the dull thud of your forehead against the rug.

* * *

You don’t remember lying down here, on the couch with one shoe. Still at least you’re home, safe and away from the outside world-

“Feeling better, now?”

A noise between a scream and swear leaves you at the voice, but when you attempt to sit up your skull pulses with bolts of pain and you helplessly throw yourself back onto the cushions and focus on not throwing up, racing pulse doing little to assuage the throbbing agony in your head. Indifferent or ignorant to your suffering, the creature flicks on the light and walks closer, leaning over you in a jangling mass of color.

“Oh, no, don’t tire yourself out! I’m not planning on doing  _ anything  _ with you. Honestly, I just want to talk.” 

“Okay,” you breathe, trying to convince your heart to stop attempting to jump out of your throat. “Can I ask any questions?”

“I believe you just did.”

“ _ Real _ questions.”

“Is that not considered a real question?” She’s smiling now, the cat that caught the cream, and you have to try hard to not wince at the eerie sight of her bared teeth. 

“About you, I mean.”

“About me.” She gives pause at that before shrugging, the colors on her clothes rippling long after the motion itself. “Fine. Though consider yourself warned, there isn’t much  _ me  _ to discuss.” Seemingly satisfied with this, she folds her enormous hands before her and cocks her head at you, the curls framing her face twisting into impossible angles.

“O...Okay.” Trying to wrangle your thoughts, you approach the wall between the kitchen and bathroom, slamming the flat of your palm against the partition for emphasis. It stings, but you do your best to stay collected. “There was a door here, before. How did it get here? Where did it go?”

“Well,  _ I _ put it there. Then I took it back.”

“You put the... door there. And then took it.” 

“Yes?” Her mischievous expression shifts into something dangerously close to genuine concern, like  _ you’re  _ the one acting out of sorts. 

“Why...” you sputter, completely forgetting your previous attempts at composure. “What was the door for?”

“I left it there, for you. But in light of some... recent developments, it has been removed.” After a beat, she fixes you with a look, a stare that stills something deep and instinctual inside you. “ _ Don’t _ go looking for it.”

The gears in your head grind against her words, simultaneously trying to reject and accept the reality of the situation. Okay. There’s a strange woman with rakes for hands in your apartment, studying you with wide eyes that never seemed to know what color they want to be. As you watch her watching you, one of those overlong hands drifts out and scoops up your phone, the breadth of the device easily dwarfed by the length of her fingers. 

“Don’t touch that.” The words jump out of your mouth before you can stop them, dropping like stones to the floor through the still air.

“Oh?” 

“I need that, you know... What do you want?” 

“I want to  _ watch _ .” You blink and she’s there, crowding against you, close enough you can feel the awful leeching not-warmth rolling off of her in waves. “Not like The Eye does, of course. That’s out of  _ my  _ jurisdiction. But I’ve been feeling so apart from humanity and figured, why not? Consider this my refresher course.”

“Your... refresher course.” You almost laugh at that,  _ almost _ , but the light from the streetlamp glances off her butcher-knife nails and you become acutely aware of just how dangerous the being in your home is. The fear you’d fought so hard to push back surges forward again and presses down, squeezing your chest with bands of iron. Her eyes seem to  _ shine  _ at your reaction, two-tone marble stare just barely hiding a greed that drives a chill up your spine. The distance between the two of you suddenly feels too small, too  _ close _ , and you find yourself shuffling backwards, unwilling to tear your eyes away. The sensation of cushions against your legs is a welcome one and you throw yourself onto the couch, eyes still fixed on the stranger. 

There’s long expectant silence between the two of you. The thing, Helen, you remind yourself, stands stock still in your tiny kitchen, radiating an almost palpable anticipation. It’s disorientating how much of her seems to move even as she’s staying still- the fractal colors in both her eyes and clothes dance around each other in a dizzying eddy of motion, chasing each other as viciously as wild dogs. In contrast her skin is enviably smooth, sweet looking dimples and smile lines flashing out from an oval face the color of warm rosewood.

Before you can even begin to formulate an answer to that question, your phone chimes and you jump, the thing nearly leaping from your fingers to shatter onto the floor. Upon closer inspection the alert seems to be a text from a co-worker. You’re honestly unwilling to take your eyes off the Helen-thing, however, so you end up awkwardly holding the phone up between you, keeping both firmly in your line of sight. The message is mercifully short; he only wants to make sure you made it home safely and more importantly if you’re scheduled for tomorrow. The angle of the phone is terribly awkward at first but you manage to peck out the first few letters of _ yeah I’m fine see you tomorrow  _ before the colors on the monster-woman squirm all at once, and the sickening truth of the matter takes hold.

_ I’m alive, _ you type, still unable to convince yourself to blink.  _ Can’t come in tomorrow tho.  _ You watch the text bubbles in the chat pulse as he deliberates a reply, before pausing and giving you the most noncommittal answer possible.

* * *

With that you watch his icon shift to offline mode, easy as anything. Biting back a hysterical laugh you shove the phone into your back pocket, fixing your attention back on the lone figure before you. With his blunt dismissal, the situation has swung into a drier, almost painfully sharp quality- you are going to die. This thing is going to eat you, pull your skin apart like the skin of a fruit and bite at the soft meat inside, and the knowledge is both terrible and liberating in a way that loosens your tongue. 

“Why me?” The question comes out flattened with exhaustion but Helen-thing perks up as if she’s won a prize and leans close like she’s offering you a precious secret. 

“You offered.”

The rest of the night seems clouded after that. You vaguely remember Helen explaining the process of marking individuals, the implications of it all, before talking you through the logistics in a way that is somehow both banal and gleeful. When you fumble to the kitchen and furiously wash your face and arms in an attempt to wash yourself of whatever invisible label you’ve tainted yourself with, her sonorous laugh is as physical as the ringing of church bells. 

By the time the first threads of sunlight begin filtering through the darkened sky the fractal woman has vanished, the weight of your terror the only evidence of her presence. 


	2. Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if we kissed in your apartment after I scared you
> 
> And we were both pining 😳 😳

It’s been nearly a month when _she_ comes back.

The irony regarding the timing of the situation doesn’t escape you. You’d just gotten to the precipice of utter denial, that last stop before being able to completely reject all memory of that night when you step out of the shower and see her there, carefully flicking through the collection of worn paperbacks you keep by the couch. For a long moment she doesn’t speak, her focus apparently lost to the pages of The Liars’ Club. Even though water from the shower still clings to you streaming down your neck in cool streams adrenaline sparks to life within you, radiating through your limbs. Painfully aware of just how vulnerable you are, you lower your head and avert your eyes, shuffling with all the speed of a geriatric zombie towards your bedroom door, open just enough to offer you a teasing glimpse within. Agonizingly slow you watch the distance between the door and you shrink, moment by moment- first five feet, then three, then two then one-  
  
“Oh, there you are. I hope I’m not interrupting you, but I have a question.”

Your stomach lurches at the sound of her voice; the words seem to echo, their shivering reverberations filling the air around you. When you finally coax yourself into facing her, you’re greeted to the discerning sight of unblinking eyes the color of an oil slick, fixated firmly on you. The silence between you stretches like taffy, longer and longer until your synapses finally fire and you realize she’s waiting for your response. Stringing words together is a task not unlike shoveling mud but you try anyway, fumbling the entire way. 

“Oh, um... sure? I guess. I mean- I can’t stop you, really.”

“My thoughts precisely. Still, there’s no harm in asking. I’m wondering, have you ever heard of the show Bromans?”

What.

“What?”

“It’s a reality program! They take athletes and make them do the most ridiculous challenges, I’ve been hoping utilize them someday-”

“No, wait. What?”

“Oh, sorry?”

“You just... wanted to talk about TV? I thought...” The ridiculousness of your statement causes you to pause and you falter, the sentence trailing into nothingness. 

“You thought what, exactly?” She seems on the verge of laughter at your panic, and that scares you even more, tension cramping your jaw until you nearly bite your tongue clean off.   
“I thought you would... I would die.”

“You will!” She says merrily, and your breath escapes your lungs at her words. “Not now though! Just... eventually, somehow. I wouldn’t worry about it too much. Anyway, have you seen it? I was hoping I could put on an episode or two. We could talk about it, gossip about who’s going to win- you know, a real girls night!” 

...A girl’s night? A dry chuckle scratches at your chest, more shock then fear. This can’t be happening. Normalcy is dead and this thing calling itself Helen sits upon its corpse like a throne, gleefully inviting you to join in the madness of willingly streaming Bromans. The hideous unfairness of the situation makes tears rise in your eyes, threatening to spill over. With words eluding you you settle for nodding and she brightens up considerably, one caricatural hand gesturing at your still-shut bedroom door. 

“Oh, you’re wonderful, you know that? Go get your pants and I’ll get the telly on.”

Once you’re in your bedroom you throw yourself onto the bed and burrow under the covers, but the victory is hollow- you’ve only prolonged the inevitable. As if to remind you of the reality of your plight the murmur of the TV in the living room rises, an invisible tether that only serves to drive home that you’re truly not alone. Dressing is a cumbersome ordeal that takes longer then you expect as your trembling hands refuse to cooperate but eventually you shuffle back out, living room lit only by the waiting glow of the television. Part of you hoped she’d lose interest if you dawdled, wander off like a forgetful child and leave you to the comforting harbor of denial but a larger, sensible part doesn’t want to push the limits of her apparent patience. 

Unsurprisingly, she’s still there. When she moves to face you, her neck doesn’t so much turn as snap into a new position, and the crunching noise that accompanies it is nearly enough to drive you back into hiding.

She pats the cushion beside her and you suck in a sharp gasp as one of her nails carelessly slices through the material, shearing through the linen as easy as air. Under her unrelenting stare you stiffly approach the couch and lower yourself, perching on the edge of the seat as your muscles start to cramp from prolonged tension. The corny faux-rock theme that plays as the first episode of Bromans starts up is almost funny as you hunch there stonelike, the energetic tune scraping at your nerves.

Helen nudges a bowl of something your way (it’s supposed to be popcorn, you think, but it’s strangely colored and warped) but you mutely wave her offering away. Keeping your gaze fixed you stare at the TV screen but see nothing, nearly all your mental energy focused on listening to the sounds of the thing sitting beside you. If you keep still this will be over soon, then you can go back to pretending you’re just a normal service worker who just happens to be absolutely losing their mind.

The minutes drag as the show wears on; the endless procession of tanned, smiling athletes begins to overlap until the names and faces attached become little more than incomprehensible nonsense. You watch without seeing, blankly facing the screen, sitting through challenges and eliminations through a cocoon of paralyzed shock so total you’re barely aware of your own pulse throbbing in your ears.

Eventually though, the last of the credits roll and screen fades to black, taking with it the color from the room. There’s the near-silent _clik_ of the television turning off and then it’s just you and her, the quiet broken only by your shifting. It isn’t until you hear the rustling of cushions that you finally break your trance and turn to your unwanted guest, ignoring the uncomfortable crick that’s settled into your neck. 

“Well, what did you think?” Helen leans close, eyes sparkling with genuine curiosity as she regards you. Unblinking stare still fixated, she takes a long sip of what you assume is wine, though the liquid is oddly transparent and shimmers with a sickly kind of iridescence. The cup itself is a garish blend of colors that defy comprehension, a blown-glass monstrosity that catches your attention and holds it, muddying your focus until you barely remember where or what you are. It isn’t until those chitinous nails dart close in a snapping gesture that you fall back into yourself, suddenly-cold toes curling into the carpet in a desperate bid to stay grounded.

“The show is... fine,” you cough, cringing at the way your voice has gone brittle with disuse. At your halting words she nods encouragingly, clearly waiting for you to say more. “I, um, didn’t expect Richard to be out. Thought Kai would be the one to... yeah.” 

“Oh, absolutely! His ego was massive... That elimination in the second episode was not a surprise, really.” 

As if on a string your head bobs in agreement, the motion as empty as the gaudy wineglass she rolls between her fingers. Your flat fills with silence afterward, blanket-thick and pressing. Nervously your tongue darts out to wet your lips, the relative ease of motion highlighting the cramping discomfort of your legs. The muscles are flushing with pins-and-needles but before you can make a move to adjust yourself Helen pushes herself upright and stretches, moving with a fluidity that speaks to an apparent lack of a skeleton. Part of you winces at the implication but the larger part of you remains numb to the sight, immobility threading so firmly through your muscles it takes a huge effort to even turn your head.

“That was quite fun, wasn’t it?”  
  
You can’t find it in you to respond. Instead you watch her as she finishes her unholy callisthenics up before turning to smile at you, eyes sparkling with a genuine joy that’s borderline unnerving in its sincerity. Before you can scrape together some grey matter to acknowledge her question she pats your shoulder in an affectionate gesture. It isn’t until she pulls away and crosses the room in long, frenetic strides out of sight that you manage to get your breathing back under control, fighting off the last of your panicked gasping. Regardless, fear stretches your nerves razor-thin, bowstring tight and on the precipice of snapping. You’re so tense that the sudden creak of a hinge makes you jump; when you look towards the sound you see Helen, silhouetted by light spilling from a doorway that was definitely not there when you’d moved in. Light spills from the impossible hall over the curve of her shoulder, the sterile glare disorientingly strong against the warm lights of your apartment.

“Well, I’ll be going now. Look after yourself, will you? I cannot wait to do this again.” 

With that, the door shuts firmly- the noise of it settles deep into your bones, lingering too long after the sound fades. The reality of your solitude hits you like a sledgehammer, the excess adrenaline wracking your body as you slide back into the couch cushions. You don’t know how long you sit there, steeping in a bittersweet cocktail of dread and relief until a thought pushes through the haze, breaking your shock like a stone through glass. 

“Again?” 

* * *

“So... what are we watching?”

The muscles of your heart tense all at once in a single awful squeeze, a pathetic squeak . It takes you a moment to settle your mind enough to answer her, stress making the words alien in your mouth. 

“It’s, uh, Big Fish.”

“Hm.” She drops herself on the opposite end of the couch with a whoosh of crushed cushions, beetleback nails drumming lightly on the arm. “Can’t say I’ve seen this one.”

You can’t seem to make your mouth work anymore after that so you content yourself with curling up in the furthest corner of the couch and staying there, heart fluttering in your throat. Normally this scene of camaraderie would be sweet, nearly cozy, but the adrenaline prickling through your muscles reminds you just how far from cozy you really are.

“What’s that one’s name?” 

“What? I, um, sorry?” 

Ignoring your ungraceful fumbling she flicks a finger at a figure in the film, narrowly missing the surface of the screen. 

“The giant! I know he was called something, I just can’t recall.” 

“Karl,” you mumble. “The giant’s Karl.” 

“Right! You know, this isn’t the type of film I’d expect from a Sainsbury worker.” 

The comment is so innocuous, so mind-bogglingly normal for the situation you almost want to laugh, but instead you take the lull in conversation to compose yourself, digging deep into your well of customer service training to keep your voice light and friendly. Over the course of these random rendezvous you think you’ve come to terms with “Wh... Why’s that?”

The sudden shift of the cushions startles you out of your trance- Helen is twisting towards you in a show more of that awful bonelessness, brows comically raised over prismatic eyes. 

“I was hoping you’d ask, frankly. You seem more like the documentary type.”

“What... kind of documentaries?”

She smiles at that, sliding deeper into the cushions while making a show of tapping a long finger against the corner of her lips. 

“True crime, perhaps? I know that’s become awfully popular lately.” 

A second laugh escapes you at that, louder then you’d expect. Suddenly self-conscious you cross your arms over your chest, allowing one last derisive snort before collecting yourself.

“That is so not my thing. When I saw you... I... uh...” Talking doesn’t seem like the best idea, any more. Instead you bite your lip until blood starts beading between your teeth, cursing your stupid loose lips. In a flash of panic-driven inspiration you grab at the remote and hold it between you, a lifeline and offering all at once. She blinks down at it firmly grasped in your sweaty palm before turning her attention back to your frazzled expression. “Let me show you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helen: *pulls curtain back while Reader is in the shower*  
> Helen: Are we - stop screaming, it's just me- are we out of Cheetos?
> 
> (Also Helen is eating [this!](https://www.amazon.com/Rainbow-Popcorn-Assorted-Flavors-Gallon/dp/B079JXXB6C#ace-g9766277718) All distortion avatars love it, change my mind)


	3. Chapter 3

It turns out Helen really,  _ really _ likes reality tv. More specifically medical reality tv, shows like Mystery Diagnosis and Monsters Inside Me. She takes special relish in throwing out guesses long before the official diagnosis is revealed, ranging from entirely plausible if not obscure ( agammaglobulinemia ) to going completely over your head (magic worms,  _ what _ ) and after a few nudges you find yourself throwing in your own  conclusion s. You make a joke about one patient getting a diagnosis of stick up up the ass and she laughs at that, genuinely laughs, and you find yourself easing into the sound, the warmth of it. Fear is still there squatting in the pout of your stomach but the burst of humor has changed your perspective, emboldened you to do more then just cower. 

You find yourself spending much more time researching future plans than actually working; it’s like your plan of pulling overtime to make a quick buck has vanished and in its place you’re poring over craft guides and sightseeing ideas like an over enthusiastic tour guide. The journal you’re using is a warzone of crossouts and nigh-illegible annotations overlapping to the point of nonsense. Looking it over somehow irritates you, the sheer absurdity of it. It’s all so,  **so** stupid, wasting your focus and energy on a literal monster whose idea of hanging out starts with her _ breaking and entering  _ and only gets worse from there-

Stopping that unhelpful train of thought you slam the little book shut and rest your forehead atop its smooth surface, clearing your mind until the only thing you’re aware of is the slow in-and-out of breathing. Exhaustion creeps up on you, pulling like the tide and just as powerful. You feel yourself slipping into the realm of sleep, lulled into peace by the sound of the wind rustling the trees outside. 

* * *

“I must say,  _ that _ doesn’t look terribly comfortable.” 

The voice seems muddled to you, barely comprehensible through the veil of sleep but you jolt awake when something cool skitters across your temple. It moves further up before settling spiderlike on your head, tapered ends caging your skull almost gingerly. Opening your eyes you’re nearly nonchalant at the sight of Helen crouching beside you, rapier of a finger brushing loose hair from your eyes. Her other hand continues to rest on your crown, and you note neither of you have made a move away yet.

“‘S not,” you slur, slouching upright. “I only meant to write something down.”

“And how did  _ that _ go?”

The corner of the notebook has pressed into your skin, leaving a dent in one cheek and your mouth has filled with the texture of sandpaper. As you orient yourself you feel the first stirrings of a headache in your skull, a knot directly behind your eyes. “Absolutely stellar.”

“That’s fantastic to hear,” she croons, taking a seat in your armchair like she owns the place and it’s breaking dawn outside just now. “So what’s on the schedule today? Any  _ breaking  _ news?” 

When you press the heels of your palms against your eyes tiny pinpricks of light explode behind your eyelids, dazzling more than any star. The dark does little to alleviate the pain, and you take that as a sign that you probably need to rest more. With that you stand up, stiff hands fumbling slightly as you start to clear the desk. The texture of the notebook in your hands reminds you of your original intent and you perk up momentarily, turning to meet Helen’s unblinking gaze. “Not now, actually. After work.” She seems put out by that and nearly pouts, but you refuse to engage further, letting the conversation drop. The satin of your bedsheets makes a pleasant rustling as you lower yourself onto them, giving a pleased hum as they settle around your body.

Satisfied, you stretch out across the mattress and close your eyes, too exhausted to worry about the unknowable horror still hogging your recliner. “ _ Goodnight _ , Helen.” 

Despite the dismissal she lingers in your space, expression genuine even as her shadow jitters unnervingly across the floorboards. 

“...Goodnight, love.”

* * *

The next time she comes to you, you try to teach her how to dance. 

Without a doubt, the activity is a disaster. In a flash of misplaced confidence you’d labelled the steps on the floor with marked tape; when you go to show Helen the neat directions they’re somehow hopelessly scrambled. Retracing your steps reveals the first step has somehow migrated to be beside the fifteenth, the second step has stuck itself to your calf, and the tenth step is somehow tucked away inside your fridge, wadded into the egg carton. You pull it free from the shelf, only to discover it’s unpleasantly damp from the cooling unit. When it clings wetly to your fingers she laughs and you find yourself joining in even as you ball up the soggy paper and fling it into the corner. An idea comes over you and before the nerve can abandon you you usher her back into the living room and bow grandly, nearly tripping in your enthusiasm. “Shall we begin?”

There’s a long, pregnant silence. Helen, who normally looks amused at your suggestions is nakedly staring at you, head cocked like you’re a riddle to be solved. After a few more stilted pauses, 

When you take her hand you’re not surprised at how  _ wrong _ the texture feels- the tips of what you can only imagine are dozens of tiny misaligned bones pressing against the skin, the grooves of her fingerprints shifting of their own volition in your grasp. Once you explain the basics she’s quite good at it, almost better than you, and the initial awkwardness melts away as the pair of you take turns leading the other around the living room long after your tea has gone cold. 

The bar is packed, sweltering. Warmth radiates from thronging patrons combines with the condensation pouring down the front windows into a sticky damp that settles on you like a veil, reducing the dancefloor to a strobelit swamp. The mixer you’ve been served tastes good enough, you guess, but even as you shoot your co-worker another awkward thumbs-up of forced excitement you’re keenly aware of the first thobs of an oncoming headache. You’re hyperaware of just how little you want to be here, doing this, with sweat dewing on your back and jostling strangers invading your space. Instead you find your thoughts straying to the comfortable intimacy of quiet conversation, of sharing ideas and experiences, all occasionally punctuated by chiming laughter that makes your teeth hurt-

Oh, no. 

You miss Helen. 

* * *

The ride home is already fading from memory as you tumblr from the cab. You’d already paid the driver, long ago having pulled out the exact change to cover the bill. Unlocking the front door proves simple, but as you make your way up the flight to your apartment you can feel the mixture of booze and stress settle greasily in your stomach. Trying to steady yourself, you let your steps slow to crawl and lean heavily on the railing, taking slow and deliberate gulps of the cool air. The situation is so familiar you want to laugh. At least, you consider doing so before the horror dawns again and you have to forcibly rip your thoughts away from the  reality of the situation . It takes several seconds to drag your focus kicking and screaming back to the world around you- namely to the Herculean task of unlocking the door to your flat.

The keys jump from your hand twice but you finally struggle inside and collapse on the couch, clinging to the linen like a drowning man. The booze is making you both emotional and queasy and you press your face to the cushion and focus on breathing deeply. Stiffly you roll onto your back and squint up at the ceiling clutching a throw pillow to your chest, the room slowly stopping its spinning. All at once the futility of your emotions sweeps over you, bolstered by the liquor in your system, and you let out a stifled cry into the linen. The sobs are almost painful as they leave your chest, wringing all the air from you in harsh bursts. Between breaths you curse Helen, curse  _ yourself _ , curse whatever God there may be for letting you open that door. It isn’t until you’ve cried yourself out that you finally let exhaustion overtake you, stretching out as you drift into an agitated rest. 

She doesn’t appear for weeks after that. 

Loneliness tinged with self-consciousness and shame nags at you every time you come home to the normal amount of doors but you keep your head down and work through it, taking double and even triple shifts in an attempt to counteract the anxiety making a home in the pit of your stomach. You absolutely do not cry into your pillow, hating your unreasonable emotions or chew your nails to the quick. Instead you’re coolly detached from her absence, never once wondering if she thinks of you in the same way you think about her. In all honesty you’re less subtle than you think- a couple of weeks after your drunken  epiphany your manager corners you, motherly concern deepening the crows feet at the corners of her eyes. 

“Are you alright? You’ve been...  _ quiet _ lately.” 

“Me?” Your stomach flips at the question, tiny bolts of adrenaline making your arms tighten. “I, um. Fine I guess.” Immediately you know it’s not the right answer- her brow furrows deeper and she puts a hand on your arm in an attempt at comfort. “Are you sure? If you’re not feeling well, we can-” 

“I’m getting over a crush,” you blurt, hoping you’ll drop dead on the spot. No such mercy existed however, and you barrel on, trying to explain yourself as vaguely as possible. “I ended up falling for someone who, um, isn’t...”  _ Human _ , your mind supplies helpfully.  _ Definitely not human. _ “...Interested. I’m just, uh, getting over it. Sorry if I’ve been worrying you.” At your words her expression softens, something like sympathy in her eyes. “I understand. Why don’t you start your break a few minutes early? Take some time to clear your head.” 

The gesture is so sweet you want to cry again- after all the time cooped up in your apartment devoted to frankly pathetic pining, the kindness is almost overwhelming. 

“Thanks,” you choke out, offering her a watery smile. “I think I will.”

The days go by easier after that, if only slightly. You take your joy from the little things, despite the lingering sadness; a lovely sunset, a warm breeze, a flattering new dress. It feels like the first touches of normalcy coming back, the quiet after the storm. 

It feels like recovery. 

At least it does, until you come home and find a neon door wedged in the narrow wall space between your bedroom dresser and window. Then you feel like you’re drowning as your hands skim over the slick yellow paint job, hands shaking. Something shifts behind you, a whisper of motion, and you know who it is before you turn around. 

Helen is at the threshold of your room hovering ghostlike, lost at the edge of your world with no map. Something unnamable flutters in your chest and you feel impossibly floaty, light radiating through you. Against your will the energy lifts the corners of your mouth in a crooked grin. “Hi.” 

You feel the prick of tears behind your eyes, and you hope it’s a combination of stress and lack of sleep. Overwhelmed, you stumble to your bed and flop down, relieved tears swimming across your vision.

“ _ Well _ , hello again! How’s my favorite-  _ oh _ .”

Beside you the bed dips slightly; even with your face covered you’re aware of Helen’s presence drawing close. 

“You know, most people save the tears for the first time we meet.”

Her voice is teasing, bursting with that familiar air of wicked delight and the sound of it alone helps to steady you. Swallowing thickly you let out a raspy chuckle, swiping at the fresh tears threatening to spill over. “I never cry on the first date. At least buy me dinner first.” The humor leaves the room and you sigh, pulling away. A flood of words come to mind but you keep your mouth shut, not wanting to embarrass yourself further.   
_  
__Focus. How do I say this without sounding pathetic?_

“I waited for you.” The words are impossibly quiet and immediately you want to take them back, just pull the sentence from the air and shove it back inside. Helen’s eyebrows leap up at your statement.

“What can I say,” you croak, your humor very-nearly but not-quite overriding the anxiety sitting stonelike in your stomach. “I’m a sucker for beautifully strange and dangerous women.”

“I am  _ not  _ a woman.” Helen says, swaying slightly in place like a tree bowing in the breeze even as the air in your flat is completely still. “I’m just  _ me _ .”

Her uncharacteristic honesty feels barbed, carefully chosen like she’s using her words to pry at your insides and you bite your lip before clumsily redirecting the conversation, throwing out the first activity that comes to mind. 

“Want me to, um, paintyournails?”

* * *

The intimacy of the moment is not lost on you- Helen close enough to touch, watching you work, yourself leaning over one of her hands as you apply careful lines of paint. It’s exhilarating; terrifying in a way that makes you want to laugh and cry, and a decent part of you can’t stand it. Instead, you’re here, cradling her gangly hand in your lap as you carefully stroke polish over each  formidable nail, smaller fingers wiping away the stray paint with a gentleness that belies your feelings despite your forced air of nonchalance.

“I have mixed emotions about the idea.” You can feel her shift beside you, waiting for context.

The gregarious colors of her outfit seem to bleed and blur as you blink against at the edges, soaking into the off white of your walls. the saltwater of your tears. A specter all your own.

Neither of you move. Instead, you simply freeze there, losing yourself to the swirling color in the marbles of her eyes. The both of you so close you can almost make out your own dreamy expression in the minuscule reflection. It’s she who breaks the moment, impossibly angled curls coiling and rearranging themselves into broken fractals you already know feel impossibly satin between your fingers. As the moment falls further and further away, you become aware of the warmth radiating from your face in waves, so intense you nearly reject the reality of the nervous heat humming under your skin. 

You’re starting to think you have a thing for swirled eyes.

Against your better judgement you lower your mouth to her wrist and hum, dropping a neat row of feather-light kisses that drift all the way up to the warm plateau of her palm. 

“I think I love you,” you tell her. Your words hang in the air between you but you refuse to pull away just yet, eyes downcast and pressing her hand to your cheek. Instead, you wait for her to break the silence. Those long fingers curl around your face, nudging your gaze up with a gentle pressure. Apprehension prickles the back of your neck but you manage to raise your eyes to meet her own. 

“Do you?” She murmurs, quiet for once. 

“Yes.”

The silence between you is bottomless, endlessly pulling the air from the room. Looking at her is starting to feel blinding, like gazing at the sun so you close your eyes and swallow, trying to think of ways to escape the stifling situation you’ve talked yourself into. Before you can put one of your escape plans into action she leans down and presses her lips onto your eyelids, one after another. The feel of her is borderline indescribable; it feels of static and silk and ice and absolutely nothing, all flush against the thin skin above your lashes. 

Your hands reach for her lapels, angling to pull her that much closer before she pulls away, easily withdrawing and leaving you to the emptiness of your arms. 

“I’m not sure I can return the sentiment in the way you’d hope, luv.”

The truth of the matter is inescapable. Your heart flags in your chest but you force yourself to nod, tongue impossibly thick and still in your mouth. Humiliation burns hot across your cheeks, threatening to morph into tears but you grit your teeth and look away.

“I know,” you mumble, hoping to be struck dead where you stand. “I just had to say  _ something _ , I  _ couldn’t _ take it-”

You’re silenced by a hand curling over your face, chin firmly between the base of forefinger and thumb. You allow Helen to turn your face back towards her but keep your gaze averted, painfully aware of the dewing tears clinging to your lashes. 

“But... ” A long thumb reaches up and flicks the first drop away before it can fall, and against your own humiliation you find yourself looking her in the face, soothed by the cool feeling of her touch. “I... prefer you. Out of all the others.” Pulling closer, she sits on the bed and lifts you -so casually it legit scrambles your thoughts- and places you in her lap, easy as breathing. A traitorous bubble of hope starts growing in your chest as you sit there, stiff as a board, before you carefully shift and lean against her, taking one of her elongated hands and twining it with your own. Thoroughly surrounded you close your eyes and listen to the ambient sounds of the street below, mind blank as you let yourself enjoy her touch for as long as you can.


End file.
